


Beard

by ERS



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Comedy, Crack, M/M, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:48:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26308837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ERS/pseuds/ERS
Summary: “So,” Damen leaned across the table towards Laurent, “you really are going to make a major issue of opposing the royal beard?”“I beg your pardon?” Laurent looked down his delicate nose at Damen. “I would never presume to tell my husband and joint King of Artes not to wear a beard, even if it does look ridiculous.”“So this is war,” Damen growled. Laurent blinked innocently.“I wouldn’t dare,” Laurent’s expression suddenly turned cold, “if I were you.”Today is World Beard Day.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

When Damen, known formally as King Damianos, joint ruler of the Kingdom of Artes, awoke in the bedroom he shared with his co-ruler King Laurent, he felt a slight stab of annoyance because Laurent had apparently favoured getting up early over staying in bed and waiting for Damen to awaken and perhaps commence activities suited to enjoying the morning before the serious matters of state overwhelmed them. 

In fact, Laurent hadn’t gone far; further inspection showed him to be in their adjoining bathroom, combing his long, blond hair like some beautiful fey creature from an ancient legend; an enchanted youth, eternally brushing his hair to entice unsuspecting victims to their death, like Lorelei. 

Damen sneaked up behind him and pressed a kiss on the back of Laurent’s neck, a place where the young king was particularly sensitive. Laurent jumped and uttered a garbled, disgruntled Veretian word that Damen hadn’t come across and which sounded like a swear word, of which Laurent had an endless supply. That wasn’t quite the reaction Damen had been hoping for.

Laurent turned around, his blond brows knitted together in irritation.  
“Your stubble is scratchy,” he pouted, looking younger than his 22 years. “You can shave now, I have had everything arranged. I meant to mention it yesterday: I believe you forgot to shave then as well. Possibly for one or two days before that, too.”

Damen came to stand in front of his husband.  
“It won’t scratch any more in a couple of days or so,” Damen rubbed his chin rather smugly, “I’m growing it out.”

Laurent let the comb sink and focussed his attention on Damen. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then he leaned forward and inspected Damen’s chin closely. Then he cleared his throat. “Pardon?” he finally said, raising his brows and pronouncing the word in clipped Veretian.

Damen smiled again. He was prepared for this. The disbelieving look, the raised eyebrow: this was very much Laurent’s modus operandi when displeased.  
“I’m growing a beard,” Damen smirked, “as befits my status as king.” 

Laurent’s blue eyes turned piercing. “Why?” he asked. “I am sure you can be kingly without cultivating this... this growth!”

Damen felt back-footed by Laurent again. “It will make me look more regal,” Damen said defensively, “I’m 27 and it’s time I honoured the ancient tradition of the elder Akielon kings by wearing a beard. I am no longer a callow youth in my first spring.” 

Laurent jumped to his feet. “Then you can grow a beard when you’re 47. Come on, I’ll even shave you myself.” Damen eyed the shaving tackle and then Laurent’s eager face. That was a tempting proposition with the promise of more. 

“No,” he said firmly, “you’ll get used to it. The beard stays.”  
Laurent turned his back on Damen abruptly, sat back down and resumed combing his hair. “You’ve never complained about Nikandros’ beard,” Damen added, sulkily.

Laurent shot around and fixed Damen with a blue glare.  
“Quite frankly, anything that obscures Nikandros’ features is fine by me. They are no loss to humanity. Yours, on the other hand, I enjoy seeing.” Laurent’s eyes suddenly softened and he blinked his long eyelashes at Damen. 

“Ah”, Damen faltered, seeing the promise in Laurent’s blue gaze. He steeled himself. “The beard stays. It will look manly and imposing. You will love it when you get used to it.”

Laurent switched the charm off immediately. “All right,” he spat, “but don’t imagine I will kiss you with all that scruff in your face.”

Damen reached out soothingly. “When the hair grows out it won’t scratch any more, darling.” Laurent batted the hand away. 

“If I want to kiss a furry face, I have Emmeline,” Laurent hissed.

Hearing her name, Laurent’s white, blue-eyed cat came running over to Laurent, rubbing herself on his legs and staring at Damen with dislike. Emmeline considered Damen completely beneath her recognition at the best of times. When she felt that he had caused her beloved Laurent distress of any kind, she hated him and would frequently hiss and spit at him. Sometimes she sank a sneaky claw into the meat of his thigh. In fact, she was very much like her owner in many respects.

Apparently satisfied with his hair, Laurent rose from his chair and, motioning the cat to follow, wordlessly left the bathroom. Emmeline swiped at Damen’s naked shin in passing.

Damen completed his ablutions in the bathroom, wiped the specks of blood left by Emmeline’s claws off his leg, and hurried after Laurent. When he entered the bedroom, he saw Laurent fastening the laces on an embroidered Veretian jacket, a particularly over-decorated eyesore that Damen was sure he had discreetly disposed of in a sack of old clothes that had been sent to be repurposed. 

“Didn’t we agree,” Damen snapped, “that you would divest yourself of all that ornamental Veretian attire while in our warmer capital of Delpha?”

“Delfeur,” Laurent murmured in response and did not otherwise acknowledge Damen’s question.

“Delfeur then,” Damen persisted, “we had all those chitons made especially for you.” The making of the chitons had been personally overseen by Damen himself, because Damen enjoyed seeing Laurent’s smooth thighs under the short, diaphanous garments that Charls had personally manufactured for Laurent’s use while in the new capital of Delpha. 

“It is a little chilly today, is it not?” Laurent answered delicately.  
“Not chilly enough for the mountain of brocade you’re wearing,” Damen growled. “At least leave the jacket off, you’ll die of overheating.”

“But the jacket is one of my favourites,” Laurent’s voice turned silky and a little dangerous, “would you deny me my simple pleasures just because you wish to ogle my thighs like a dumb beast?” Damen felt his face get warm. Luckily Laurent’s back was still turned and Damen’s tan didn’t really show a blush.

“I’m just worried about you,” Damen gritted while Laurent swept out of the bedroom without waiting for Damen to accompany him to the breakfast room.

In the breakfast room, Damen was met with the sight of Laurent wrangling with Nicaise over the pastry with the most icing. They both looked up at Damen at the same time, and the same sneering grin appeared on both their faces simultaneously. Laurent graciously gave up the pastry to Nicaise and took one oozing strawberry jam instead. Nicaise whispered into Laurent’s ear and Laurent snorted. So Laurent had already recruited Nicaise to his cause, Nicaise who was even better at guerilla warfare than Laurent himself. Damen grabbed a bread roll and steeled himself.

Damen didn’t have to wait long. He had hardly taken his second bite when he noticed Nicaise whisper something into Laurent’s ear. Laurent snorted and grinned, then he leaned over and whispered something in Nicaise’s ear. The two of them exchanged a look, then looked at Damen, looked at one another again and both burst out laughing. 

“What is the meaning of this childishness!” Damen shouted, thumping the table with his fist to emphasise his point, causing the delicate Veretian tableware to jingle like the bells Nicaise used to wear. Laurent raised a brow at him.  
“I will not tolerate being ridiculed by my own family!” Here Damen inserted an Akielon swear word for good measure. Laurent looked scandalised.  
“Not in front of the child, Damianos,” he chided. 

Damen gritted his teeth. Not only was Laurent himself the master of swear words and curses from at least five nations including some very obscure ones that Damianos was not sure he hadn’t made up himself, but 16-year-old Nicaise spent most of his time with the soldiers and had never really been a demure and delicate soul if the truth be told, even when he had looked the part in his younger years. 

“Anyway,” Laurent continued, “we were merely worried about your image as king, since that seems to be a source of great concern to you.” Without being prompted, Laurent continued: “Nicaise feared that you had smeared plum jelly all over your upper lip. It wouldn’t do for you to appear before your subjects like that. I explained to him that the smear on your upper lip is in fact the beginnings of a beard. No reason for you to thump the table like that.” Laurent took a delicate bite out of his pastry, unfortunately leaving no trace of jam on his face.

“So,” Damen leaned across the table towards Laurent, “you really are going to make a major issue of opposing the royal beard?” 

“I beg your pardon?” Laurent looked down his delicate nose at Damen. “I would never presume to tell my husband and joint King of Artes not to wear a beard, even if it does look ridiculous.”

Nicaise hurried to get off his chair, mumbling something about his tutor waiting for him and scurried out of the room.

“So this is war,” Damen growled. Laurent blinked innocently.  
“I wouldn’t dare,” Laurent’s expression suddenly turned cold, “if I were you.” He smiled threateningly at Damen showing his very white teeth, brushed the crumbs from the horribly ornate brocade jacket, and, tightening the laces at his white throat, strode out of the room.

“What did you do?” Nikandros said when they were both panting after a sparring bout.  
“What do you mean?” Damen growled.  
“Well, you’re obviously distracted and swinging your sword around as if you wanted to behead everyone in a ten yard radius. You’re taciturn and look as if you had sucked on a lemon. Plus I came across His Veretian Highness smirking evilly whilst marching purposefully towards the stables, looking like an avenging angel after a particularly vengeful morning.”

“Nicaise talked, didn’t he?” Damen threw his practice sword down. “Disloyal little sneak, he would.”  
“So Laurent doesn’t like the beard,” Nikandros confirmed.  
“It scratches and covers up my features, which he likes, apparently,” Damen grumbled. “I swear it, Nikandros, this time I will not climb down from my intended course of action. A beard will add gravitas to my appearance. It is not up to Laurent to decide these things for me.” 

Nikandros pondered this.  
“Are you sure?” he asked. “There are precedents that suggest otherwise. The time you decided to shave your hair, for instance,” Nikandros supplied helpfully, “or when you tried to ban all wall hangings from the palace.” Damen grunted.  
“The hair grew back,” he mumbled.  
“So, apparently, did the hideous Veretian tapestries.” Nikandros pronounced. “I noticed Laurent was wearing the jacket as well,” Nikandros continued, “I though you had given it away to charity or something.”  
“I don’t know how he got it back,” Damen said, kicking the wall moodily, “I think half the palace staff are in his pay as spies or something.”  
“Possibly,” Nikandros agreed. “Well I shall follow your progress with considerable interest, Damen. I wonder how long it will be before that stubble gets shaved off. I will see you at the council meeting, I dare say. If Laurent hasn’t chewed you up and spat you out in the meantime.”  
“Do you have no pity for your king?” Damen pleaded.  
“I don’t like to have to say this,” Nikandros turned to look at Damen, “but I did tell you so. You did have to marry the Veretian snake. His Veretian Highness I should say. You were once his slave against your will, now you are a willing slave to his every whim.”  
“No I’m not,” Damen shouted after him, “the beard stays!” Damen was not sure, but it seemed to him that the sound of Nikandros’ laughter still echoed after he had long disappeared from sight.

Passing the stables on his way to the baths, Damen noticed a knot of soldiers surrounding Lazar, most of them personal guards to the kings.  
“Exalted!” Lazar shouted, would you care to try your luck? We’re having a little bet.” The men frequently bet on something: who was the faster rider, the better archer and other harmless subjects.  
“What are you betting on?” Damen drew closer. He liked the thrill of betting and often indulged.  
“His Majesty has also placed a bet,” Jord said slyly.  
“Really?” Damen’s bad mood returned with a vengeance. “In that case I will place a bet on whatever Laurent isn’t betting on.” Lazar smirked.  
“His Majesty is betting that your beard will be shaved off before the Veretian delegation arrives from Arles next week, Exalted.” Damen was sure he heard someone stifle a giggle at his expense. Pallas most probably. Lazar was a very bad influence on him.

“In that case,” Damen boomed, “I bet double that my beard will not be shaved off.”  
“Oh no,” Jord hurried to correct him, “the other option is that the beard will last until the 21st of September, the first day of the Autumn fair. And then be shaved off.” Damen felt as if his head were ready to explode at any minute.  
“The beard stays,” he rumbled bad-temperedly, “whatever Laurent says. As my personal guard I demand you have more faith in your king and leader.” Damen could see by the expression on Jord’s face that he wanted to argue that they were also Laurent’s guard, so he frowned forbiddingly at him and slunk off to the baths without placing a bet. 

“Backstabbers,” Damen said to himself while soaking in the fragrant water, “the lot of them.” He rubbed his chin contemplatively. Yes, it was still stubble, but his thick, dark hair grew quickly and by next week, by the time the Veretian delegation was due to arrive Damen thought pettily, it would already be a full beard, and by the time of the Autumn fair it would be truly regal.

It was all very well for Laurent to flit around the palace with his smooth face and long hair, but Damen was a mature king, the descendant of the Akielon kings of old, fierce, strong-willed and made of iron. Damen was fed up with people like Jord and Nikandros, not to mention his own adopted son, Nicaise, implying that it was Laurent who actually pulled Damen’s strings and ruled home and hearth. 

Not that Damen had any qualms about leaving policy decisions to Laurent. Laurent was actually good at politics, even though he wasn’t always very diplomatic, and Damen hated wrangling for hours over trade tariffs; but Laurent’s fashion sense left much to be desired, as evidenced by the jacket. 

In Vere, men actually sometimes wore perfume and powdered wigs. That was decidedly unmanly. Small wonder that Laurent had no proper dress sense, growing up in an environment where men and women draped themselves in jewellery and smothered themselves in brocade. No, Damen would uphold the honourable Akielon tradition of wearing the full beard of the established and mature king, enhanced by a simple chiton and a royal cape. If only Laurent would also embrace the simple Akielon chiton, especially the type that ended above the knee.

Actually, it still rankled with Damen that a Patran delegate had mistaken Nikandros for the Akielon King last week. That had been very embarrassing for all parties. Damen did not particularly like Patrans anyway. Torveld was far too fond of kissing Laurent’s hand for one thing. And it just would not do for Kyros Nikandros to look more kingly than Damen, the actual king. 

Damen waved away the servants bringing the heated towels and oils and dried himself. Surely he had imagined them staring hard at his chin, although Nicaise’s arm was long and it was probably all in a morning’s work for him to have informed the whole of the palace and the town all about the royal beard and the ensuing argument with his Veretian Highness. Feeling wronged and misunderstood, but also refreshed and clean, Damen made his way to the council room to spend the rest of the morning debating politics with Nikandros, Laurent and the councillors. 

“Exalted,” Laurent greeted him formally when he entered the council chamber, raising an eyebrow and fixing his eyes on Damen’s chin. Automatically, the councillors’ eyes followed Laurent’s gaze until everyone in the room appeared to be staring at Damen’s chin. Damen decided to count until ten and then let it go. He could see Vannes smirking out of the corner of his eye. She would. She had almost certainly been thoroughly briefed by Nicaise. 

“Your Majesty,” Damen returned, “would you be so kind and read us the agenda for today’s council meeting?” Damen hoped it would be short, his stomach was grumbling and an early lunch was most desirable. He knew they had no immediate and pressing decisions to make and if he was lucky, the meeting would be adjourned soon.

“Certainly,” Laurent smiled, fiddling with the brocade jacket until it was covering him from the top of his neck to to his hands, leaving Damen nothing to admire idly while he let his attention wander.

“Point one: the Patran delegation and the outcome of our talks on trade tariffs: We should draw up a contract for both sides to sign as soon as possible before the Patrans change their minds; Point two: Preparation of the meeting with the delegation from Arles next week, Herode is bound to want to talk about grain deliveries so we should agree on a strategy to present to him; Point three: The Autumn fair, we need to organise committees to deal with the various aspects of the fair, I suggest we approach some of the local business people and innkeepers for help. Furthermore...”

“Are we going to talk about all that today?” Damen interrupted, “why, we’ll be here until nightfall!”

Laurent looked pityingly and a little bit condescendingly at Damen.  
“Such is our burden as kings,” he sighed, “I’m sure you agree that we mustn’t shirk our responsibilities, even if it is turning out to be a sunny day, Exalted.” Damen saw Nikandros, seated on the other side of Laurent, roll his eyes. So, apparently, did Laurent.  
“You have a comment to make, Kyros?” Laurent turned his attention on Nikandros, and so did everybody else.  
“No, your Majesty,” Nikandros growled sulkily.  
“Good, so we’re all in agreement. Then I will return to the points on our agenda. That was only the beginning, after all.” And Laurent droned on for what seemed like hours, while Damen’s stomach rumbled in accompaniment to Laurent’s lilting Veretian accent.

“Shave the beard,” Nikandros hissed at Damen when they had at last been granted a break for lunch.  
“Certainly not,” Damen answered with his mouth full, “you’re supposed to be on my side.”  
“His Veretian Snakeness will torment us until you do,” Nikandros growled, “it was all right as long as I thought it would be just you having to suffer for your insubordination, but he’s dragged us all into this. Do it now. The afternoon can still be saved!”  
“I most certainly will not,” Damen repeated rather loudly, causing Laurent, who was nibbling gracefully on a fruit tart, to direct a censorious look at Damen.  
“Damen, I do hope you don’t get indigestion again,” Laurent trilled across the table, “You know how over-excitement upsets your stomach. Older people have to eat carefully, they do easily get stomach ache, and seeing as you are a mature and elderly King by your own admission, you should heed the warnings of the physicians.”  
“Paschal said that to Herode,” Damen snapped back. “I am in my prime I’ll have you know.”  
“If you are in your prime,” Laurent smiled prettily, “then surely you don’t need an old man’s beard.”

“If you can’t see it now,” Nikandros hissed into Damen’s ear, “what a snake in the grass your husband is, then I pity you. Well, to be honest, I always have pitied you. You haven’t got a chance.”  
“Absurd,” Damen growled back, “he’s just being petty because he knows that he has lost the argument. I can put up with a few snide remarks as long as I win.”  
Out of the corner of his eye, Damen could see money changing hands. Apparently Nicaise had involved himself in the betting.

After four monotonous hours listening to Laurent quibbling with the Councillors and the Kyroi about every irrelevant issue under the sun, Laurent had apparently bored himself enough to release the council and go riding. He didn’t invite Damen to accompany him but at least he had discarded the brocade jacket in favour of form-fitting riding leathers that Damen rather approved of. Leaning against a pillar, watching Laurent’s rear-view disappear briskly towards the stable, Damen felt someone thump his shoulder. 

“So,” Makedon boomed, thumping Damen’s shoulder again for good measure, “I hear you’re growing a beard.” Damen just grunted. On the one hand, General Makedon was an Akielon traditionalist who wore a beard himself. In the other had, he cultivated an inexplicable and enthusiastic friendship with Laurent, and had been known to side with the Veretian king on such diverse issues as export tarifs on griva to whether or not the palace felines should wear gem-encrusted collars (Laurent) or not (Damen). 

“I have a solution to all your woes,” Makedon continued mysteriously, “come with me.”

Secretly, Damen had hoped that Makedon knew something embarrassing about Laurent that he could hold over his husband’s head, but disappointingly it turned out that Makedon’s solution was his go-to remedy, a bottle of griva. After downing a couple of glasses of the foul-smelling spirit just to be polite, Damen felt sick and had to retire to the bedroom chambers he shared with his husband to sleep it off.

Damen was awakened by the sound of someone sniffing. He opened his eye and saw his husband’s flawless face above him, delicate nose inhaling loudly.  
“What?” Damen said grumpily.  
“I was looking to see if you were asleep,” Laurent answered pointedly, “when I smelled alcohol. Griva to be specific. Will you be able to come to dinner or do you have to sleep it off?”  
“I only had a glass,” Damen snapped, “and that was hours ago. Of course I’m able to come to dinner.”  
“Well then, I assume that you smell so strongly because you drooled some of it into your beard,” Laurent tilted his head and looked critically at Damen’s face, “so unhygienic.”

On an impulse, Damen grabbed Laurent’s shoulders while he was still leaning over him looking disgusted, and toppled him onto the bed, half on top of Damen, where he proceeded to kiss Laurent’s neck. Laurent let out an undignified squawk, punched Damen in the shoulder and righted himself with all the disgruntled grace he could muster. Emmeline, who had suddenly appeared, hissed at Damen from the corner of the room.

“Scheißkopf,” Laurent sniped, “Malakas. Trou de cul. Fathead. Do that again and you can sleep on the sofa tonight. If you keep that disgusting beard, that’s where you will be spending the rest of your nights anyway. Don’t dare assume that you can bring that breeding ground for diseases anywhere near my face. Or my neck, for that matter.”

“Laurent, come on,” Damen pleaded.  
“Non!” Laurent changed for dinner in record time, despite selecting an outfit with an abundance of laces, and stomped out of the room without once looking at Damen. So it was open warfare now. Well, two could play at that game.


	2. Chapter 2

Damen was allowed to sleep in the bed, he was relieved to find, but Laurent turned his back on his husband instead of sleeping snuggled into his arms as he did most nights. The fact that sex was most definitely off the menu had penetrated even Damen’s occasionally thick skull. So Laurent had brought out the cavalry as well as the archery now. Damen would have to counter that tactic with one of his own. Damen wasn’t going to let his petty and stubborn husband outmanoeuvre him. After all, he had taught Laurent much of what he knew about tactics himself. He would just have to employ his superior knowledge of the art of warfare and apply it to winning against his husband.

When Damen arose the next morning, there was no trace of Laurent. He must have gone for an early ride before breakfast, which was nothing unusual. In the bathroom, Damen was greeted with the sight of his own shaving tackle, carefully laid out on a table in the middle of the room where it was impossible to overlook. His first impulse was to kick the table and just throw everything on it out of the bathroom window. Then he decided that it would be much more effective if he just ignored it. 

Damen regarded his reflection in the mirror with some satisfaction. Even the most ill-meaning person, say Nicaise, could not possibly mistake the growing beard for a smear of plum jelly now. Damen’s plan was definitely coming along nicely.

Laurent was obviously currently engaged in psychological warfare, attacking without warning and making forays into Damen’s camp, trying to wear him down. The shaving tackle strike was testament to that. 

Damen was a seasoned soldier and not easily cowed by such obvious manoeuvres. His strategy would be to ignore lesser attacks such as the bathroom ambush, and practice damage management only. That way, Laurent would spend his reserves on guerilla tactics, while Damen could save his. When Laurent had tired himself out, then Damen would attack with full force and decide the battle for himself once and for all. For now, all Damen needed was patience, and he had an idea that was going to be more easily said than done.

Laurent was not at breakfast, having not yet returned from the stables, but Nicaise made up for his absence amply. He greeted Damen with a snigger and all the while Damen was eating, Nicaise followed Damen’s every movement with his eyes, apparently waiting for a crumb to lodge itself into Damen’s burgeoning facial hair. 

“Does the hair get into your food and drink?” Nicaise asked bluntly. Damen sighed and counted to ten. He wasn’t going to waste ammunition on Laurent’s footsoldiers.   
“No it doesn’t,” Damen returned, “does yours?”  
“No, but mine is on my head,” Nicaise grinned, “yours is on your face, all around your mouth.”  
“Ah, but it is hair now, and can no longer be mistaken for plum jelly,” Damen triumphed, “so there!”  
“What the hell?” Nicaise exclaimed, sounding contemptuous. With a groan of exasperation at the enormous stupidity of adults, he ambled off to his lessons.

As there was no council meeting scheduled for that day, Damen spent his morning working off his annoyance at Laurent, Nicaise and the whole royal beard situation by beating the hell out of anyone who came near the fighting ring. He would have thrashed Laurent too if he had seen him to challenge him, at least that was what he assured himself. But Laurent seemed to be busy scaring the stable hands and ordering the stable master around, if the faces of the people rushing to and from the stables were any indication. This could mean that Laurent might be in a genial mood at lunch, having worked off his contrariness at the stables, or it might mean that he was on a roll, which would be bad news for the royal beard.

Laurent appeared at lunch freshly washed, braided and dressed in a monstrosity of a Veretian jacket that Damen was sure Laurent was wearing with the express intention of driving him up the wall.   
Really, there was no excuse at all for a hideous item such as the laced version of a Veretian tapestry currently adorning Laurent’s otherwise highly attractive figure. But Damen triumphed with sheer will-power and steadfastness. Patience, he told himself, is key. Don’t show the enemy that he is getting to you. He even managed to greet Laurent with carefree camaraderie and to compliment him on his intricate braid.

Unfortunately, no one had told Nikandros about the change in tactics. Nikandros smirked at Laurent, something that a lesser man would never have dared to do, and enquired which of the palace tapestries had been sacrificed for the construction of the jacket currently worn by Laurent. 

Laurent showed no trace of annoyance and smiled gently at Nikandros, a very bad sign. A sign, in fact, that Nikandros had done exactly what Laurent had wanted him to do.  
“Very droll, Nikandros,” Laurent lilted, “haha.”   
Damen bit his lip. Nikandros had walked straight into Laurent’s trap. Well, he would have to let his best friend sacrifice himself then; the safety of the king’s beard was paramount and that was where he would muster his troops. It was Nikandros’ own fault that he had broken ranks. Nikandros had offered Laurent the opening he needed, and Laurent was not the type of person to miss a chance. 

“Speaking of personal ornamentation,” Laurent continued with a coy look, “I have noticed the rather baffling trend among younger Akielon men of concealing their features with an abundance of hair. While a jacket can be removed at will,” here Laurent shrugged off the hideous jacket he was wearing with a flourish, “the beard is rather more permanent. I find this new fashion to be rather ill-advised, like a child wearing their parent’s shoes.” Damen stared at his soup, avoiding Laurent’s gaze in the hope that he would not be made the public target of Laurent’s remarks, but it was Nikandros that they seemed to be primarily directed at. “Surely no relative, friend or partner would want to embrace a person afflicted with such a proliferation of facial hair, much less kiss them. How sad that must be.”

Nikandros was staring at Laurent with narrowed eyes and a look of intense dislike.  
“Pray explain yourself,” Nikandros gritted, ill-advisedly in Damen’s opinion. Well, Nikandros was definitely on his own here, Damon could hardly defend a commander who left himself so open to attack.

“It is all very well for a seasoned general such as Makedon to wear a beard,” Laurent claimed, “facial hair can be quite dignified on an older man of standing. Anyway, no one would want to kiss Makedon anyway because of his unfortunate addiction to certain spirits. Presumably they also kill any traces of disease his beard might be harbouring. But on younger men, this beard-wearing is pure posturing, a sign of insecurity and evidence of self-doubt.”   
“There are all kinds of reasons to wear a beard, and insecurity is not one of them,” Nikandros argued loudly, stroking his beard and obviously feeling deeply insulted.  
“Oh but of course,” Laurent answered in a conciliatory tone of voice, “and I’m sure facial deformity is an excellent reason to wear a beard. But while this might apply to your good self, it certainly doesn’t apply to Damen with his godlike features. Look at the chiselled jaw, the imposing chin, still visible under the fluff. What a sin to cover them in coarse, disgusting hair.”

Although Damen knew he shouldn’t, he did preen a little bit. 

“Laurent,” Nikandros shouted, nearly incoherent with rage, “you are...”   
“fearlessly honest?” Laurent interrupted.  
“… the rudest, most offensive and unreasonable person it has ever been my misfortune to meet.”  
“Why thank you,” Laurent returned, “I always strive to be the best at everything I do.”   
“Also, you are...” Nikandros tried again.  
“A snake in the grass?” Laurent interrupted again with a knowing look. “Oh yes, dear Kyros, I know all about your affectionate nicknames for me. The walls have ears. And I wouldn’t want to disappoint you on that count.” Laurent raised his eyebrows threateningly and then hissed like a snake for good measure.

That was it, Damen sighed. Laurent and Nikandros would now proceed to air every perceived slight ever committed by the other party for the next hour or so until it culminated in a slanging match. Then they would refuse to speak to one another for a day or so until they it made up in a flood of wine and drunken tears the next evening. On the other hand, Damen brightened, the argument momentarily took the heat off him. And if he was very careful, he could sneak away, as most of the other lunchers already had, for a spot of sparring and then a nap, with his beard and his honour in tact. 

Only four more days until the arrival of the delegation from Arles, Damen pondered as he scuttled down the corridor to freedom. Maybe he should swallow that pride and place a bet. Perhaps he should open his own sweepstakes with more desirable options. But first he would put Jord and Lazar in their places. Both at once. He had missed them at the morning’s bloodbath. Damen was still the finest swordsman in the whole of the Artesian Empire. Unless Laurent cheated of course.

The afternoon passed admirably for Damen. He first took on three new recruits and thoroughly beat them. Furthermore, he had the satisfaction of hearing the young men praising their king’s fighting prowess as they left the arena. That was much-needed balm to Damen’s otherwise suffering soul, and he felt himself flooded with confidence and sure that he, ancestor of the fighting kings of Akielos, had no reason at all to give any ground to Laurent, his pretty but wayward Veretian co-ruler. Laurent was clever, but as a fighter he was no match for Damen after all. 

After that, Damen happened upon Jord and Lazar as he had hoped, thrashed them until they begged for a reprieve and then made them concede that the betting should include the option that Damen would keep the beard absolutely and that this option was indeed the most likely. Magnanimously, Damen placed a large amount of money on himself keeping his beard, and swept off to the palace feeling extremely optimistic about his future. He would give Laurent a piece of his mind about his involvement in what was essentially Damen’s decision alone, and put a stop to Laurent’s meddling once and for all. 

Damen found Laurent standing in front of the oil painting that had been completed on the occasion of their wedding. Damen liked the painting himself, it was a good rendering of Laurent in a short, figure-hugging white chiton and the painter had paid special attention to Laurent’s thighs (a few choice remarks Damen had made could possibly have been the reason for that). 

When he came nearer, he could hear Laurent sighing. Surely his abrasive husband was not having a sentimental moment?  
“A lovely painting for a lovely occasion,” Damen said carefully, coming to stand next to Laurent. Laurent sighed again and shot Damen a pained look. “What ails, you, my sweetest?” Damen added in a sugary tone. Hopefully he could ingratiate himself with Laurent again and thereby render the unpleasant task of telling Laurent off unnecessary.

“It is nothing,” Laurent sniffed, “only...” he paused to wipe his eyes, “you were so beautiful on that day. Perfect. A monument to kingliness. Oh, to see that smooth chin, that regal profile unmarred again.” Laurent dabbed at his eyes. “Ah, well,” Laurent sniffed, “we can not always have what we wish in this life. I had thought my unhappy days were over, but sorrow seems to have attached itself to me.” Laurent turned to go. “I have learned to weather disappointment and tragedy, and I will also bear this burden like the martyr life has seen fit to make of me.” Speechless, Damen watched as Laurent, almost shapeless in his hideous jacket, left the room, head down and shoulders shaking as if he were weeping bitter tears.

Stunned, Damen felt fixed to the ground. He was torn between shaving off his beard immediately just to see Laurent smile again and outrage at Laurent’s obvious intrigue and his underhanded and grossly exaggerated remarks. He felt a guilty pang for being the cause of Laurent’s displeasure and he was also angry at himself for feeling that way, because, in his heart of hearts, he knew full well that Laurent was playing him and that Laurent’s goal was victory. It was the game he liked, so Laurent always said, but he was damned well intent on winning those games he played, too. And this time, Damen wasn’t going to let him get away with it.

Grumbling with annoyance at having let himself be so easily manipulated by Laurent, Damen almost walked into a tall and smooth-faced Akielon who seemed vaguely familiar at first glance. He stopped and stared, and so did the other man.  
“Ah, Damen,” the other man said at the same time that realisation dawned on him.  
“Nikandros?” Damen felt his mouth fall open. This was scandalous. His own best friend, his comrade from his childhood days, his most trusted Kyros, fellow soldier and holder of Damen’s innermost thoughts and feelings, loyal Nikandros, was a traitor.  
“Yes, quite,” Nikandros rubbed his smooth chin. “I was just coming to see you.”  
“Defector,” Damen growled.  
“No listen,” Nikandros intervened, “Laurent...”  
“Thank you, that is all I need to know,” Damen snarled, “he got to you. Turncoat!”  
“Not at all! If you would just listen.” 

Nikandros looked around and then spotted the door to an empty sitting room, into which he dragged Damen, closing the door and putting his fingers to his lips. “You never know where that viper has planted his spies,” Nikandros whispered.  
“Explain yourself to your king!” Damen commanded, hands planted on his hips.  
“Well,” Nikandros began, “you probably heard Laurent’s remarks about my alleged facial disfigurement; that was before you cravenly sneaked out of the room where your best friend and Kyros was being verbally assaulted by your reptilian husband, offering said best friend no support at all.”   
“Go on,” Damen urged.

“Laurent would not accept that I was not wearing a beard to conceal a weak chin. So he bet me a case of1666 Châteauneuf du Vere to prove that my face is completely flawless and my jaw without blemish, imperfection or weakness.” Nikandros sighed happily. “He is having the cellar master send it to my rooms as we speak. From his personal stash, and you know how selfish he is about that. And he made some very complimentary remarks about my face.”

“Nikandros, you fool, he played you,” Damen raged.  
“I don’t care,” Nikandros smiled dreamily, “imagine, a whole case of the 1666. I might even let you share, despite your cowardly retreat earlier on.”  
“You sold your honour for a case of Veretian wine?” Damen sulked, “I am disappointed in you, Kyros Nikandros, deeply disappointed.”  
“He said I look much more distinguished without a beard,” Nikandros said smugly. His step as he left was sprightly and light-footed.

After the exchange with Nikandros, traitor and avaricious coward that he was, the lustre had gone from Damen’s afternoon. He had to concede that Laurent had won quite a substantial battle, rendering an important ally of Damen’s useless with a peace treaty that stank of corruption and bribery. A typically Veretian tactic, and one that Nikandros had willingly embraced despite his well-aired views on the matter of Veretian treaties. Even if Damen had to admit that the 1666 Châteauneuf du Vere was an extremely rare and coveted vintage from one of Vere’s foremost vinyards and it must have hurt Laurent to transfer a whole case into Nikandros’ ownership, Nikandros’ defection smarted. As a punishment for Nikandros, Damen was going to make sure that he was present every time Nikandros opened a bottle of his ill-gotten gains and that he got his fair share of its contents. 

While pacing the corridors of the palace, Damen happened upon an Akielon servant who often attended Laurent. His face was smooth and looked suspiciously recently shaven. He lowered his eyes and tried to evade Damen’s attention as he quickly turned into another corridor.  
“Stavros,” Damen shouted after him. The servant had no other choice but to turn around and address his king.  
“Exalted?” he responded looking decidedly sheepish.  
“Your beard,” Damen accused, “I’m sure you had a beard. Where is it?”  
Stavros hummed and cleared his throat, looking embarrassed.  
“Out with it,” Damen boomed. “I am your King and I asked you a question. You will not be punished,” He added in a slightly less combative tone.  
“Beards are,” Stavros cleared his thoat, “no longer in fashion.”  
“Says who?” Damen demanded.  
“Says his Majesty, the Veretian King,” Stavros answered. Damen growled.  
“And what does his Veretian Highness know about Akielon fashion,” he challenged.  
“His Veretian Highness knows everything,” Stavros claimed with an expression of utter adoration on his face. “He told me shaving my beard would help my chances with Anne.” Stavros sighed happily. “She has just accepted my suit.” Wordlessly, Damen turned on his heel and strode out of the corridor.

Laurent here, Laurent there, Laurent was one step ahead of him everywhere. But it had to be admitted, Damen thought grudgingly, that Laurent did give good advice and that his schemes usually worked. Damen sighed regretfully at the thought of Laurent’s smooth and toned legs. Would he ever get to admire them again? Would Laurent ever give up wearing those horrific Veretian garments that appeared to be tailored to repel the onlooker and banish all thoughts of a healthy conjugal relationship with the wearer? 

Damen had actually planned to have a nap before dinner, but he knew that he would find no rest now and, apart from that, he had worked up quite a sweat fighting, the smell of which was currently manifesting itself in no uncertain way. Damen changed course to the royal baths, where he could soak and nap at the same time. 

When Damen stepped inside the baths, which were mercifully empty, a gaggle of servants appeared from nowhere, carrying towels, bathrobes and an assortment of fragrances.   
“Yes, fine, thank you,” Damen grumbled, frowning at the clean shaven faces, “I won’t be needing your services. I am able to wash myself.” Before they left, one of the servants put down a large box and scuttled out of the room. There were about forty bottles of oils and fragrances in the room including that box full, typical Veretian puffery. 

Damen had just immersed himself in the warm water, when the door opened. He was about to shout when he saw his husband, still swathed in the loathsome Veretian jacket that he had worn to lunch. Laurent didn’t speak, but he did smile, so Damen decided to keep quiet and see what Laurent would do. He didn’t appear to have a shaving knife on him, and Damen doubted that Laurent would favour a straightforward attack, so Damen relaxed slightly. 

Keeping his eyes on Damen, Laurent let the jacket fall from his shoulders. He then set about unlacing the white shirt he was wearing beneath it. Damen felt his interest stirring. Laurent reached into his hair, undid his braid and let his hair fall in waves around his shoulders. Under Damen’s fascinated gaze, Laurent then unbuttoned his polished Veretian boots, stepped out of them elegantly, and then unlaced his breeches, which he tossed into the corner of the room.

“What shall it be, Exalted,” Laurent hissed sensuously, “A beard, or this?”

“Servants, servants! Bring my razor! Attend to your king!” Damen ordered at the top of his voice. After all, there was no in dishonour in an orderly retreat when outnumbered.

Laurent put a finger to his lips. “Hush,” he said, “I sent them away. He turned to get the box the servant had placed on the bench. “If you will allow me.” He carefully removed Damen’s shaving tackle from the box, placed it by the side of the baths and slipped into the water. 

When Laurent had finished shaving Damen, he held up a mirror.   
“Look how handsome you are,” Laurent enthused.   
“Well, I suppose,” Damen grumbled, “if it will stop you wearing those horrible jackets.”  
“Only chitons from now on,” Laurent promised, “short ones.”  
“Don’t you think the beard gave me a certain kingly air,” Damen persisted, “a regal and majestic aspect?"  
“Au contraire,” Laurent answered, “it is a great mistake to conceal such manly and imposing features as yours. You have the jawline of a true king.”   
“If you say so,” Damen answered between planting kisses on his husband’s neck.

“And anyway, Nikandros doesn’t have a beard any more,” Laurent said almost kindly, “so no one can mistake him for the king on that account.”  
“How did you know about that?” Damen asked.  
“I’m your husband, “Laurent smiled, “I make it my business to know everything that pleases and displeases you so that I can bring you joy and happiness for all the days of your life.”  
“Unless of course it disagrees with your plans,” Damen answered, taking hold of Laurent’s chin and looking deeply into his azure eyes.  
“But my plans are always laid with your best interests at heart,” Laurent returned. “Your best interests are having a spouse who is always willing to kiss you and who worships your handsome, well-shaven face and perfect jaw line.”


End file.
